Confession
by Catmint
Summary: With guilt over his actions weighing him down after the war, Draco finds himself in the most unlikely of places in an attempt to ease that burden.


**Confession**

 **Disclaimer:** Not my world, not my characters, all belong to JK Rowling etc, except for Fr Paul – he's mine.

The church featured is a real church. I've never been to it yet, although I drive near it whenever I drive between Exeter and Southampton; it's just off the A35. Chideock is pronounced "Chiddick". I do plan to visit it at some point because it looks beautiful.

I am familiar with the process of confession (Sacrament of Reconciliation) works as I am a practising Catholic.

Minor lateral season-3 _Flash_ reference – hope you spot it!

 _Early August 1998_

The sun shone brightly on the warm stone early-nineteenth-century Catholic church of Our Lady, Queen of Martyrs, and St Ignatius in the small village of Chideock in Dorset as the slender figure of a young man dressed all in black hesitantly approached. Birds twittered in the trees on either side of the quiet road and a rabbit bounded across it, ignoring the person as he tucked his hawthorn wand carefully into the interior pocket of the jacket he carried.

He stopped at the junction where a narrow single-track road left the one he was on and took a deep breath, pushing a wayward lock of his white-blond hair out of his eyes. Part of him was surprised that he was here, but it was at his mother's suggestion and with everything she had done for him, it was the least he could do. She had lied to Voldemort and saved the world. She had defended him at his trial. And in the month between the end of his trial and now, she had refused to leave him unsupervised (whether it was her or his father) for fear that he would try to kill himself. In all fairness, he had to admit, her instinct on that one had been correct. Perhaps she was right; perhaps this _would_ help. Another part of him was amazed that his mother, the quintessential pureblood, had even suggested it – but then, his mother was becoming a veritable well of surprises recently, so maybe he should be less shocked than he was.

A gentle breeze blew a leaf into his face and, brushing it off, he began walking again, more confidently this time, determined to see this through, following the service road until he was standing at the top of the path. He stilled, reading the notice board that listed mass, confession and adoration times along with various other details. Beneath it, visible only to his people with a number of complicated charms upon it, was an additional sign that said: _Open to all, Muggles and wizarding folk alike_. The priest's sister, he recalled his mother informing him, was a Muggle-born witch, thus explaining the church's lower sign.

After a moment he shuffled up the path until he was in front of the wooden door, which was propped open. Again he paused, taking in the sight in front of him. It really was a beautiful building, he reflected; Muggles' stonecraft was actually quite impressive. Steeling himself and digging up the small quantity of courage he possessed, he stepped inside and spent two or three minutes taking in the spectacular, detailed interior. Though he knew very little about Muggle religion, he had once overheard Justin Finch-Fletchley telling Susan Bones that Catholic churches were generally much more elaborately-decorated than Protestant churches; he could certainly appreciate the aesthetics.

But he was not here simply to admire the splendour of Catholicism, and he slowly turned in a circle, searching for any signs of human activity. Incense lingered faintly in the air and he breathed it in, closing his eyes as he enjoyed its scent.

"May I help you?"

His eyes immediately flew open and he spun round, heart pounding, breath erratic and eyes wildly roving around the church until they settled on a man in his forties standing by one of the side chapels. Attempting to steady his breathing, which was harsh and unbearably loud in the otherwise-silent church, he nodded, not quite trusting himself to speak. Closing his eyes and letting his guard drop, however briefly, was a mistake, one he would have paid for dearly not many months ago.

Observing him closely, the man took a single step forwards. He was just shy of six feet tall and stocky, with short brown hair that was showing the first signs of grey and twinkling blue eyes; he was clothed in simple black trousers and a simple black shirt, his white clerical collar a stark contrast against the black. He gave off a strong vibe of warmth and trustworthiness. "I'm Father Paul. Are you alright?"

Shakily, the young man nodded, and when he spoke he couldn't quite keep the tremor out of his voice. "I – I'm sorry, I startle easily…"

Fr Paul smiled apologetically at him. "My sister says I move too quietly; I think she may be right. May I help?"

"Are you – are you hearing confessions?"

"At this time of day not usually; however, I have nothing in my diary until five o'clock today, so if that is why you're here, I am happy to hear your confession now."

The young man let out a sigh of relief. "I don't actually know how it works – I'm not Catholic. Does that even work? Is it allowed?"

"Certainly; the act of confession is available to all to participate in. After all, once I am in the confessional, I have no way of knowing unless the penitent informs me whether or not they are a member of the Church."

"Good. Good. Er… How does it work?" His breathing had steadied and slowed to a more normal rate now; the priest exuded calmness and it seemed to be contagious.

Fr Paul gestured to a pair of dark wooden doors on one side of the church, halfway down. "I sit in one side of the confessional box and you sit in the other. We greet each other, you tell me a little about yourself - anything you think may guide me – and then I may read you a suitable passage from the Bible. You then confess your sins and I will offer appropriate counsel. With Catholics I will then give them an act of penance to carry out – though you are not Catholic yourself, there are other things I can suggest. After that you express your sorrow, which does not have to be scripted, especially for someone like yourself who does not know the words of the Act of Contrition – the exact words are less important than the intention and sincerity of sorrow. I then formally absolve you, to which you respond with 'Amen'."

The young man nodded. "Does it have to be in the box?" He bit his lip to quell the slight edge of panic that was beginning to threaten again, trying not to think about the prospect of being shut in a small, dark cupboard.

Fr Paul took in the sight of the young man's entire body trembling, the fear and panic in his grey eyes, and shook his head. "Not if you're uncomfortable with that. The confessional is designed to preserve anonymity, which people often appreciate, but it doesn't work for everyone and some people feel more comfortable when they can see a friendly face."

Swallowing hard, the young man bit his lip again. "Not in the box," he said, his voice firmer than he had thought it would be.

The priest offered him a warm smile and led him over to one of the pews at the front of the church, pausing to genuflect before sitting down and indicating the pew opposite. "Do take a seat."

Imitating the priest's action, the young man crossed himself – though he wasn't quite sure what it meant, it seemed respectful to do so – and sat down, facing the priest. "And this is _completely_ confidential?" he asked, eyeing the priest warily, not quite able to make eye contact. He needed to express his guilt somewhere he would be free of judgement and would not be punished further. Within the wizarding world he knew that would be impossible, so he had come here.

"Completely," confirmed the priest, nodding.

"Even if it's something really bad?" He clasped his hands together in front of himself, not daring to breathe.

"The seal of the confessional is absolute. You could confess to a hundred rapes and murders and I would never be allowed to reveal that to anyone. I would encourage you to go to the authorities, certainly, but I am forbidden from reporting it myself."

So his mother had been right. Already he felt calmer and he let out his breath, chuckling nervously. "Not quite that bad."

Fr Paul straightened and met the young man's gaze. He made the sign of the cross, saying, "In the name of the Father, and of the Son, and of the Holy Spirit." He nodded to his penitent. "Now you do the same and say, 'Forgive me, Father, for I have sinned'."

The young man did as he was bid and settled himself more definitely on the wooden pew, bowing his head slightly. "My mother encouraged me to come to you. I – I saw the sign when I got here. The bottom sign." He lifted his head again to ascertain the priest's reaction.

He was met with a knowing smile. "So you are my sister's kind."

Nodding, the young man felt his shoulders relax. "How – how much do you know about…about the war? About the Dark Lord?"

Fr Paul's eyes saddened. "Plenty. My sister has kept me informed."

Aware of the fear and anxiety beginning to surface again, the young man took a deep breath, wiling himself to speak. He could do this. He could say the words. "My name is Draco Malfoy. You've probably heard of me, or at least my family."

"I have." The priest's voice and face were neutral.

Draco looked down at the floor, unable to meet Fr Paul's eyes. His hands were shaking again, more vigorously than before, and he gripped them together as hard as he could to ground himself. He could feel his heart speed up and his breathing was beginning to get more ragged. Now he was here he should finish what he had started, but finding the words and speaking them aloud seemed suddenly impossible. "I – I've done things. Horrible, _evil_ things. I should have known better –" His breath caught in his throat and he broke off, swallowing hard and trying to slow his breathing.

"War makes people do horrible things."

Draco nodded fervently. "I was raised in a home that believed in pureblood supremacy. I was born during the first war but I'm too young to remember it, and I was raised to desire the return of the Dark Lord. I was…vocal about this at school. I – I called people Mudblood." He raised his head. "Do you know what that word means?"

Fr Paul's blue eyes saddened. "All too well. My sister had it thrown at her countless times."

"I bullied other students constantly. I _enjoyed_ it. I was particularly cruel in my fifth year and with Umbridge in charge I had free rein. I lied, I cheated, I bullied. Repeatedly. I saw nothing wrong with that." He momentarily relinquished his grip on his hands to run one of them through his hair, before returning it to the intense grip that would probably leave bruises. His gaze returned to the floor. "Then my father got arrested and sent to Azkaban. I was _so_ angry with everyone, but especially Potter. Everything was his fault – that's what I thought. I wanted someone to blame and he was the obvious choice at the time.

"So I went home at the end of the school year and I took the Dark Mark." He could not bring himself to look at the priest. "I became a Death Eater. I _wanted_ it – I thought it would bring me glory and recognition, I thought that the Dark Lord's cause was the right one. And he gave me the task of killing Dumbledore. At first I thought it was a huge honour; I relished it. I thought I would redeem my family name and make the world a better place, rid of the Muggle-loving old fool." He broke off, breathing becoming more difficult. His chest was tightening, his breaths coming in shorter and shorter gasps. The edges of his vision were beginning to drain of colour and he blinked rapidly, trying to get rid of it. There was a faint buzzing in his ears that threatened to get louder; he shook his head to dislodge it but failed.

"Draco, look at me," said Fr Paul, his voice firm and clear. "Draco, can you hear me?"

Draco nodded. He raised his head, anticipating hatred on the priest's face, but was startled to be met only with compassion. It helped to dissipate the greyness that was beginning to appear at the periphery of his vision, though did not banish it completely, and he was still finding it difficult to calm his breathing; the buzzing seemed to quieten. "My sixth year was awful. It didn't take me long to realise that I hadn't been given an honour; the task was a punishment for my father's mistakes, for him getting caught at the Ministry. My mother realised, tried to tell me before I went back to school, but I wouldn't listen, was still convinced that it was an honour. He – the Dark Lord – wanted to punish me, punish my whole family, for the actions of one person. I – I was supposed to die in my attempt. I think he was disappointed when I didn't; he made that clear." He shuddered at the memory.

"What did he do?"

"Have you heard of the Cruciatus Curse?"

"Alas, yes."

"He did it personally." Draco closed his eyes as his body trembled, his nerve-ends burning with the memory of being hit with the curse. He shook his head, forcing the recollection away. "I made several attempts during that year to – to kill Dumbledore. The first was a cursed necklace, but it never made it to him – some Gryffindor girl accidentally touched it and it nearly killed her instead. Then there was the poisoned mead, later in the year – Professor Slughorn had it and Weasley drank some of it; he nearly died. I got the barmaid at The Three Broomsticks to poison it – I used the Imperius Curse on her most of that year."

"That's another of the Unforgivables, isn't it?"

Draco nodded, gritting his teeth. "She was under it for _months_. I know now that I shouldn't have done it but I didn't know what else to do. And I was raised to believe that it wasn't really that bad." He let out a harsh laugh, which rang painfully around the church, making him flinch. "I got that wrong.

"And then I let Death Eaters into the school. The _school_. Including Greyback –." Here he shuddered. "And then there's my crazy aunt, Bellatrix Lestrange. Have you heard of her?"

"Yes. I understand she was a little mentally unstable?"

"A _little_? More like completely and utterly _insane_. And sadistic and cruel." Her maniacal cackle rang through his mind and he visibly winced. "She was terrifying. Is it bad that I'm not sorry she's dead? That I'm glad and relieved about it? I wouldn't be surprised; I think it's safe to say that my moral compass is somewhat broken."

"I wouldn't go that far – you're here, at Confession, aren't you? That suggests to me that your moral compass has at least some degree of function."

That surprised Draco – he was painfully aware that the wizarding world firmly held the belief that all three Malfoys were definitively evil, with no sense of morality. He was certain that he and his father were, although he felt it was unfair to tarnish his mother with that brush.

"As for your feelings regarding your aunt's death, from what I know of her, I think it's entirely understandable that you feel no sorrow about that. She did terrible things to many people."

"Even though she's family?" The guilt he felt regarding his feelings towards his aunt's death had been gnawing at him ever since the end of the war. He knew his mother shared his feelings, and when the officious Ministry wizard had approached her in the Great Hall after the Battle of Hogwarts to ask her what she wanted them to do with her sister's body, she had told him that she wanted nothing to do with it, that the Ministry could do whatever they liked. She had been perfectly happy to sign the waiver relinquishing herself of the responsibility.

Fr Paul nodded, a sage look in his eyes. "Despite that. We cannot, after all, choose our family. If you were to revel in her death, perhaps I would be a little concerned, but being relieved, given everything she has done, is no bad thing."

Those words considerably lightened the weight that had been pressing on Draco and he lessened the death-grip his hands had on each other, though the hold was still tight. He sat without speaking for over a minute before he could bring himself to continue, thankful for the priest's silence. "I put so many people at risk that night in my sixth year, and that's all on me. Nobody else. That was the night that Dumbledore – that Dumbledore died. I was meant to kill him – that was my task, after all – but I couldn't do it. He was weak, struggling to remain conscious, wandless because I Disarmed him, and I still couldn't do it. I'd always thought it would be easy – my father certainly made it seem so; he never had any problems with it and he always relished the violence. He'd always taught me that the ability to carry out these things was a sign of strength, so when I couldn't do it, when I found myself repulsed by it, I thought I must be weak."

"Quite the contrary," replied Fr Paul. "That you were _un_ able to do those things is positive; it tells me that you have a conscience, that you have plenty of good in you."

"But I didn't stop Aunt Bella from torturing Granger with the Cruciatus. She did it, right in front of me, _in my house,_ and I just watched her do it, didn't say anything, didn't try to stop her, just let her do it. If I was a good person, a strong person, I would have done something."

Fr Paul regarded him for a moment. "What do you think would have happened if you _had_ intervened?"

Draco stared at his hands. "She might have turned the curse on me. Or killed me." His chest tightened and his pulse sped up slightly, and when he spoke, his voice cracked. "Or – or done so to my mother. Knowing Aunt Bella, probably the latter, just to punish me." He looked back up at the priest, eyes wide and desperate. "I couldn't do that to my mother!"

"I can understand that. You must have been terrified."

"I was," whispered Draco, voice wavering as he recalled the event. Granger's screams were burned into his brain.

"And if you had intervened, if your aunt had killed either you or your mother for doing so, how do you think the war would have gone after that?"

He took his time as he seriously considered the question and weighed up the possibilities, only speaking when he had organised his thoughts. Unable to look at the priest as he voiced his prediction, he closed his eyes. "I suppose… I suppose the Dark Lord might have been called and killed Potter there and then, if I'd identified him. Or at the Battle of Hogwarts, as it's being called, my mother wouldn't have been there because one of us was dead. Or both of us. And – and she wouldn't have lied to the Dark Lord about Potter being dead. He'd have sent someone else to check. And they would have said he was alive, so the Dark Lord would have finished the job there and then. And then – and then perhaps _he_ would have won and we'd all be dead by now."

"Precisely. I think you are probably correct in that theory. So do you see now that your hesitation – both with Dumbledore and with failing to intervene with your aunt – set in motion a series of events that culminated in good winning and evil being destroyed? That what you perceived as failure at the time ultimately ended up saving everyone?"

Draco snorted. "I wouldn't go that far. I certainly didn't do things – or fail to do them – out of some noble motivation or anything like that. I'm no hero. I won't pretend to be."

"Be that as it may, the Lord – God, not Voldemort – works in mysterious ways. He knows and sees things that us mere mortals don't."

"Hmmm." He wasn't convinced. He was too cynical now.

"Whatever you believe or don't believe in terms of religion, I need you to realise that your actions, however inadvertent, led to this outcome. That you played a significant part in events," Fr Paul told him, face and eyes earnest. "Draco, do you regret any of your actions or inactions that you've told me about?"

"All of them!" he burst out in a flash of energy and emotion; when that drained from him, he buried his head in his hands. "I did horrible, _horrible_ things to people. I used the Cruciatus myself on several occasions; I wish I hadn't." His voice shook as memories of his actions flashed through his mind, of the hatred he forced himself to feel, of the fear of the consequences should he fail to do as bid, of the screams from the victims – fear had a smell, he knew that now. He remembered being under the curse himself, of the white-hot agony that seared every particle of his body, of the struggle to breathe as the pain coursed through his lungs, how the sensation of torture lingered for hours after the curse had been lifted, how his mother had had to carry him to his room to recover. And there were the small spasms in his left hand that he still got sometimes, an aftereffect of being under the curse for so long. The Healer at St Mungo's had told him that the spasms would stop eventually but that it might take several months.

The memories kept coming – screams, shrieks, Aunt Bella's psychotic cackle, burning pain. Unconsciously he curled in on himself, pressing his hands over his ears in an attempt to block out the sounds. His chest felt as though it was going to explode, his lungs unable to take in oxygen. He gasped for air, but could draw in none. Blackness was rushing in, accompanied by a roaring in his ears. Someone far away was calling his name again and again and again –

"Draco? _Draco!_ Can you hear me? Nod if you can. Draco, listen to me. It's Father Paul, remember? Draco, I need you to tell me if you can hear me."

The voice was growing stronger, struggling for dominance over the roaring. It was vaguely familiar, as was the name. "Can't…breathe…" he gasped, choking on his words. His chest burned; had someone cast Cruciatus on him? But Fr Paul was a Muggle; he shouldn't be able to… Unless he was pretending. Maybe he was one of the Death Eaters who had evaded the Ministry. Seeking revenge. Everyone knew that Lucius Malfoy was supplying the Ministry with information regarding their whereabouts. Perhaps they had found him, Draco, an easy target.

" _Draco_! I need you to listen to me. Can you do that? You're having a panic attack. It's not dangerous but I do need you to force yourself to breathe more slowly. Focus on my voice; I'll talk you through this. I've seen this many times before; you'll be fine. Just keep listening to me."

The roaring was beginning to recede; Draco dropped his hands from his ears, suddenly aware of how loud his struggles for air were. Could he focus? He wasn't sure. He'd only known this man a short while; could he be trusted?

Gradually, calmly and patiently, voice steady and reassuring, Fr Paul talked to Draco, keeping him focused on breathing more slowly, and eventually Draco was breathing normally again; his head ached and his nerves still felt fried. At some point his left hand had started spasming again and he began massaging it with other hand in an effort to ease it. He opened his eyes; the church was a little wobbly but his vision had more or less returned. After blinking several times, it stabilised and everything came into focus again, the blackness on the periphery of his vision receding. "That wasn't fun."

"Has it happened before?"

He nodded. "A few times, but never this bad."

"Can you tell me what was going through your mind?"

"I was thinking about what I did, what I saw, what I heard. Things that happened." He shivered involuntarily.

"You were very much on the front line of the war; don't be surprised if this happens again. Flashbacks and panic attacks are fairly common, and I wouldn't be surprised if you're developing something known as post-traumatic stress disorder; I would like you to try to seek help for it before it becomes debilitating."

Nodding, Draco pushed his sweat-dampened hair out of his face. "I'll try."

Fr Paul beamed. "May I share some Scripture with you?"

Stiffening, Draco eyed him warily. "You're not going to try to convert me, are you?"

"I would never force religion on anyone. But the Bible contains many pieces of wisdom and comfort that can be appreciated by many, not just those of the faith."

Draco contemplated this for a moment, then nodded. "Can't hurt."

Smiling, the priest pulled out a small, battered book from his pocket and flicked through it, searching for the verses he had in mind; he tucked two fingers into different sections of the book. "Ready?" When Draco nodded, he began. "Psalm thirty-four, verse fourteen: 'Depart from evil and do good; Seek peace and pursue it.'… Ezekiel eighteen, verses twenty-seven to twenty-eight: 'When a wicked man turns away from his wickedness which he has committed and practises justice and righteousness, he will save his life. Because he considered and turned away from all his transgressions which he had committed, he shall surely live; he shall not die.'" He closed the book and put it on the pew just behind him. "What do you think of that?"

Draco sat on the pew as he processed the verses, mulling them over. "I like them," he murmured, turning his gaze to the statue of Mary and baby Jesus at the top of the white stone pedestal, the lovingly- and elaborately-carved column supporting it. "They seem…appropriate."

Fr Paul smiled warmly. "That was my thinking. It is clear to me that you recognise not only that you have done wrong, but also _how_ you have done wrong. I urge you to use that knowledge to change yourself for the better, to turn away from that path and begin walking a better path. Do you think you will do that now?"

Draco met his eyes and nodded earnestly. "When we've finished here, could you write those down for me? I – I think I'd like to keep them, to remind myself."

The priest was beaming. "Of course I can and I'm very glad to hear it. Is there anything else you want to confess?"

"I think I've covered everything."

"You know where to find me should you think of anything later." The priest sat up a little. "Now, it is time I give you your penance; are you ready for that?" When Draco shivered involuntarily and felt the colour drain from his face, Fr Paul reached out and placed a hand over the young man's, eyes soft and kind. "I assure you it will not be anything dreadful!"

"I've had it with the pureblood-supremacy ideology. I've seen how flawed and inaccurate it is, and it doesn't do anyone any good."

"I'm very glad to hear that."

"That's ultimately what caused the war – and what's really ironic, what really makes a mockery of that belief, is that the Dark Lord was a half-blood."

That statement prompted the priest's eyebrows to shoot up almost into his hair. "Really? That _is_ interesting." He shifted in his seat. "First, I would like you to do your best to stay firmly on the new path. Remember the causes and the reality of the war, be vigilant, and don't be afraid to challenge those who speak of wanting to bring about another regime like that of Voldemort. Second, do not berate yourself for your old beliefs – you were a child indoctrinated with them and knew no different, had no evidence for them to be challenged. You have since had that stance challenged, have recognised that it was wrong, and wish to change yourself. I'm sorry you had to be challenged in such an absolutely horrific manner, but I am thankful that you were challenged.

"Thirdly, I want you to live your life in a way that reflects that change in beliefs and understanding. And fourth, I would like you, where possible, to apologise to those whom your actions have hurt and wronged, to make peace with them. I will warn you now that it will not be easy and that you may well be met with suspicion, distrust and rejection; do not lose heart if this happens, but accept that it may take people many years to accept your sincerity and changed person. Do you think you can do that?"

Taking a deep breath, Draco nodded. "I think so. I'll certainly do my best. I – I don't know if I'll be able to change my father's views, though…"

Fr Paul's smile grew sad. "I can hope and pray for it, but don't blame yourself if you can't change him. He has had similar experiences to you and we can hope that those will change him, but do not put sole responsibility for that on your shoulders. You already have much to bear." He withdrew his hand from Draco's. "At this point the penitent usually says the Act of Contrition prayer, but I would not expect you to do that if you don't feel comfortable doing so; instead, I would like you, in your own words, to express genuine, heartfelt sorrow for the wrong you have done, and that you resolve to do the penance given to you and to do your best to avoid sin, or wrongdoing, if you will, in future."

Nodding, Draco bowed his head and closed his eyes, hands still firmly clasped together, and took a deep breath. _Here goes_. "I am truly sorry for all the wrong that I have done, for all the hurt and damage I have caused, through both my actions and my inaction. I accept the penance given to me and resolve to carry it out as well as I can. I promise to do my best to avoid wrongdoing in the future and to live a better life."

"I absolve you from your sins in the name of the Father, and of the Son, and of the Holy Spirit." Fr Paul made the sign of the cross over Draco and bowed his head.

"Amen," murmured Draco, a wave of calm coming over him, washing away the weight of the guilt that he had carried around for so long. Suddenly he felt much lighter, much more at peace, and for the first time in over two years – since before his father's arrest – he felt truly relaxed. He knew the guilt still lingered, but it was no longer all-consuming and he no longer felt like a condemned man. He cautiously opened his eyes and raised his head to regard the priest opposite him.

The older man's face was calm. "Go in peace, my friend. Confession is over. Now, how do you feel?"

Straightening, Draco nodded and offered him a small smile. "Suddenly much better."

Fr Paul offered him a warm smile in return. "The wonders of Confession – the Sacrament of Reconciliation, to give it its formal title. So many misunderstand its purpose but you have discovered it. I'm very glad to hear that it has helped you so much. I can tell that it took a great deal of courage for you to come here and I must say I'm impressed. Thank you for being so honest – admitting we have erred, that our beliefs were wrong, can be difficult to admit, particularly for someone from your family – and am glad that you came to me." He got to his feet and picked up his Bible. "Shall we pop into the sacristy? I have pens and paper there with which I can write out those verses for you, if you would still like me to do that?"

Following suit, Draco nodded. "Very much so." He watched the priest genuflect and cross himself once again, which Draco imitated, and then followed the priest to the sacristy. In clear handwriting, Fr Paul wrote out the verses and their references before handing the paper to Draco, who carefully folded it and tucked it into his pocket. "Thank you."

"Shall we?" Fr Paul indicated the door to the church and when his young penitent nodded his acquiescence, led the way. They stood facing each other near the door and the priest offered a final smile. "Thank you for coming to me, Draco. I want you to know that my door is always open and I am only an owl away."

Draco returned the smile. "Thank you, Father. I – I'm not sure I can tell you how much you've helped me." A sting in the corners of his eyes caught him by surprise and he blinked rapidly, forcing back the sudden tears. He held out his hand and the priest took it, shaking it firmly.

"Now, go and make peace, my son, and take care."

Not quite trusting himself to speak, Draco smiled and nodded. He took in one last sight of the church, took a deep breath and Apparated home, lighter in spirit and much more able to face a world that reviled him.

 **~fin~**


End file.
